


Color Me Ruined

by HQ_Wingster



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Affection, Character Study, Coffee, Domestic, Established Relationship, Extended Metaphors, Flirting, Hair Brushing, Harry Potter is a Little Shit, Heart-to-Heart, Inspired by Poetry, Introspection, Kissing, M/M, Memories, Morning Kisses, Mornings, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Playful Tom Riddle, Prose Poem, Relationship Study, Sensuality, Slice of Life, Soft Harry Potter, Some Plot, Stolen Moments, Stress Relief, Teasing, Tenderness, Tension, Tom Riddle is a Tease, Touching, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:21:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28778967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HQ_Wingster/pseuds/HQ_Wingster
Summary: You wouldn’t strike him as a fool unless you saw him that morning, and you wouldn’t mark him as a romantic unless you heard him, heard his breathing: for the papers had been read; for the coffee had been drunk; for his hair was a mess while his partner was undone. It bore repeating with every kiss Tom had left him along with this — as he caught the hitches of Harry’s breaths and chased the sparks from those lips — that he yearned for nothing, but the pleasures of losing himself within him. And that if every morning if he could have this, he wouldn’t mind playing innocent.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 7
Kudos: 35





	Color Me Ruined

**Author's Note:**

> This will most-likely be my last story for January. Just because I have uni starting next week and the next work I’m poking at has a lot of moving parts in it, so it’s going to take me some time until you see any more reads from me. So until then, I hope you enjoy this lovely read and how I play around with the English language. Once more, it’s another sleepy fic. However, it’s a tad spicy. So do with that what you will.
> 
> General Thoughts → Since I won’t be incorporating my post-writing thoughts at the end, I’ll squeeze what I can into this one! So pretty much, I wanted to write a morning kisses fic because for the past few writing sessions, kissing has infiltrated my stories. To remedy that, why not write a kissing story to scratch that itch out of my system? Simple enough, really. In hindsight, eh. But in all honesty, it’s been a stressful start of the year and one of my favorite ways to cope is writing soft fics that capture moments of time because they’re fun for me.
> 
> They’re much more manageable than stories with an elaborate plot and I promise y’all, I do have some plot-heavy works for this pairing down the line. Just right now and for a while, these simpler stories make me feel a lot better. Granted, this work was pretty stressful for a number of its own reasons. But I’m alive and I’m okay and it’s been a ride, I would way. Can’t believe I’ve managed to get a fic out every week so far and whew, it’s tiring. But I’m getting better writing for this fandom. So without further ado, let’s get reading — shall we? 

It wasn’t the heat that bothered him; but rather, its absence. Because for a moment, it was there. But during the next, it was not. And unknowingly, he held his breath before he felt it once more. As fumbling were the hands and every finger from whom he loved, as pittering were the feet and a yawn from above, and as murmuring were the breaths and the  _ ‘hmmm’ _ s of a Riddle — or rather, a Potter by another name after he stumbled from the kitchen. Barely a  _ ‘thank you’  _ from his lips but a lower, deeper hum when he was offered a bit of coffee and he drained the rest from the mug. And then as gradually as a bloom upon the first signs of Spring, Harry rose from his stupor and blinked softly that morning. However still, he was squinting and was chasing for more to drink: glasses bumping into the mug as he mouthed along its rim. But when he was done, he didn’t leave and at that, Tom breathed. He browsed back at the  _ Daily Prophet  _ while Harry did his thing.

And by  _ ‘thing’ _ , it was this: the threading from his hands, as sauntering were his fingers through the curls of Tom’s hair. Lightly etching a few circles with a fingertip or a nail, gently scratching into a thought or simply nesting among the strands, or wandering as hands do when they were tired or bored and brushing softly at the curtains Tom had combed over an eye. Where if he glanced up from the headlines, he would’ve seen the pink outline and would’ve felt some of the heat radiating from his partner. And while as tempting as it was to just nuzzle and lean back, Tom flipped to a new page and was distracted with that. Because for right now, he had to be innocent. Or at least, play the part:  _ of a good husband reading the paper before heading off to work, engrossed with the tragedies and knowing that mankind could do better. _

And it would’ve been convincing had there not been a smirk for it had wandered from a corner before it graced his opened mouth. Because while glancing at the exchanges between the different types of galleons, it was as if there was a force nudging Harry closer to him. Enough so that he was pressed and nearly toppling over the man if he hadn’t braced behind the chair Tom was seated and reading in. Not quite awake as he grunted, but moments from getting there when he recognized this bit of magic and spotted the corners of Tom’s lips. And when he asked him for confirmation, Tom had lied to him with a frown. But he had hinted his real answer when he leaned into Harry’s hand: nuzzling at the fingers and at the palm sprawled for him, feeling a little warmer and more amused with what he did.

And if he didn’t care about a white lie and hadn’t minded committing more, he would’ve prodded his little lion for as long as he remained here. With nothing other than a name, just so perfect for this occasion, and with a front row and a seat to see how far he could tease him — because he would whisper it like a breath that would inhabit the other’s lungs, fleeting and unnoticed and very much necessary.

_ “Harry James ‘Furnace’ Potter.”  _ Tom could roll that like candy for it was sweet upon his tongue. And quite frankly, this should be legal because it fitted his partner well and Tom could sway him to believe that if he wanted for him to do so.

And had it been done, Harry would play and consider it, but he wouldn’t sign any of the papers Tom would’ve summoned. Because he would argue about pet names and how  _ ‘Furnace’  _ was technically one. That if he and Tom were to split, changing his name back would be a nightmare and as a lawyer, Tom would know since he was aware of the paperwork. And typically, the conversation would just shut after that before inevitably, it would rise and be brought back from the dead. Because Tom — damn his heart and damn his soul while you were at it — found it funny and amusing and he had anecdotes to share of how a few times out of many, he nearly got Harry’s signature. And by Merlin, he could never let the other forget about that.

For it was a crime for him to do so. Tom had sworn it, fingers crossed. And when he was pressed for the consequences, he told Harry to use his head. That an imagination wasn’t a bad thing for an auror to even have and so, he should use it and think about it if this was really that important to him. Which it wasn’t; but to be funny, Harry had tickled him for an answer. And he didn’t stop until he got one and had to dodge wandless hexes, one following after another until a curse was nearly worth it.

Which happened during a moment, quite similar to this one: where Tom had his back turned and he was vulnerable to his partner, allowing Harry to wander and to fumble as he wished. While he was wandless and reading and a bit sluggish after eating: a dangerous moment for a snake; but for Tom, he was only human. So there was no need for him to worry or to fear for his own safety: more than ready to strike back if a spell or tickle were to hit him. But as it were and as he noticed, there wasn’t a need for it wouldn’t happen. Because Harry was still sleepy and wasn’t in the mood for a play fight, and was merely waiting here until his toast was nice and toasty from the toaster. So he leaned here and wiggled all his fingers through Tom’s hair, making a mess out of payback and because he rather loved it.

Since it was soft and so soft and just comforting for him to thread: occasionally stroking when Tom’s thoughts were just bustling beneath his touch and sometimes, nipping with his nails because he knew Tom would enjoy it. And while during lulls much like this one, Harry would indulge him with his thumb and like a snake within a coil, Tom would lean to chase after it. More than aware that his lie as “a model husband” had been compromised, but he didn’t care and he didn’t fight it as he was lost to these affections. Allowing Harry full freedom to do as he wanted, as long as his fingers were still in Tom’s hair — knotting and tugging and unwinding him with such care.

Even though it wasn’t warranted, Harry had done so because he loved him: whether he was feisty or rude, playful or being  _ Tom _ , it didn’t matter to the wizard because he enjoyed all those parts of him. That always, no matter the moment and deep down within his person, there was the man he grew to care for and against the odds, he was always there. And so if you could strip him to the bone, you’d find what Harry was seeing as he hissed softly if the paper was less interesting because of him. But hissing back was the contrary when Tom refused to look away from him. Because if he did so, it would ruin the cradle he had fallen in: where cushioning his every thought was every callus from his man and staring back at him like the stars were the emeralds behind those glasses. For Tom had leaned — quite willingly — so he could have him at this angle, baring his throat and his entire life towards his darling little lion. And in return, he would teeter and would be pliant in Harry’s hands, ready to mold and be shaped with what his partner had planned.

Because to color him impressed, Harry had done just that: with his hands, with his eyes, with his warmth, with his smiles. But to color him ruined, Tom was waiting for that advance: eyeing at Harry’s mouth and he’d do anything to kiss it. For it was parted and chapped and a lovely shade of red — both an apple to his poisons and an antidote he wanted to have. And whether it was one or the other, he wouldn’t know without tasting. Perhaps he said that out loud because Harry tugged him lightly: and it was less so as a warning, but moreso to be patient. Because it wasn’t often that an opportunity would present itself like this: where if anything had to be ruffled or toed beyond its line, everywhere else was off-limits; other than his hair and other than this line. Which was synonymous with the mouth, currently smirking at him now, as Tom traced him with his gaze and was playing “the devious husband.” Or more accurately: he always was; only this time, he wasn’t hiding it.

And  _ oh  _ — would you look at that? — was that a quiver within his eyes? A tremor he couldn’t hold and an excitement he couldn’t hide? Nearly widening his pupils and fixing at his stare: there was red peering back when before, it was brown. And ever-slightly, the man beneath him was just a step away from being a monster. One that would ravish at a lion and consume them like a mouse; but not yet, Harry knew, when he scratched into Tom. As he fiddled towards the base and settled behind his nape, there was something about the sensation that almost threw Tom over the edge.

Whether physically, emotionally, spiritually or mentally: did it really matter? He was crumbling and it felt good to be this weak. It felt good to be falling, headfirst into the man he loved; it felt good to be cradled and know he wouldn’t be hurt; it felt good to just sink and be a hedon for all he knew; and it felt great because like this, he could kiss Harry and Harry could kiss him. Until nothing else dared to matter since they both had each other, until nothing else could come close to the euphoria they were drunk on. Where from Tom, it was as bitter as the coffee he had drunk; however, there was a sweetness you could only find from his tongue. While from Harry, there were oats and leftover coffee creamer, mixed with  _ ‘hmmm’ _ s of amusement and a hiss of  _ ‘I told you so.’  _ And both were chasing after the other until they were both well-fed: until Harry had woken up and gotten a fix of his husband and until Tom wasn’t starving from the famine he was lost in.

From the moment he woke up, from the moment he left the bed, from the moment he had washed, from the moment he got dressed, from the moment he had coffee, from the moment he read, from the moment he heard Harry, and from the moment he was touching him — it had been a long time since he had this and by God, he wouldn’t let go. Not until he memorized every route and every move that made him smile, not until he swallowed every breath and soon became one for his partner, and not until Harry was unwound and as undone as he could make him. Because his hands were soon roaming through the bird’s nest of his hair, which was a permanent fixture he had long grown to care. Threading and curling and knotting as he went, nearly flicking away the glasses that separated him from him. And were it not for their angle or the time crunch he was in, he would’ve teased Harry a little more just to kiss him, at least again.

But with the toasting from the toaster now done with its toast and with an early case at Court — one he couldn’t spare to miss: reluctantly, he let him go before he pressed him with another kiss. This time it was on the forehead and Harry leaned in to receive it. He received another and another and maybe, four more after that. Just Tom’s way of making sure that he had one before going to work and speaking of which, he had to leave while Harry would have some breakfast. And it almost hurt for him not to stay; however, Time waited for none. So he grabbed the papers, he grabbed his wand, he fixed his hair and was on his way.

And the only evidence of what he wanted — you could see its remnants on Tom’s face, where his eyes were still red before they bled back to brown and where his mouth was still tinged from where Harry had met him.

**Author's Note:**

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